


With Your Hands Bound (& Your Head Down)

by secondstar



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Implied Torture, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:05:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondstar/pseuds/secondstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wants to save Stiles from the fate of the Jedi.  All he has to do is open Stiles’ eyes to the possibilities of the Dark Side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Your Hands Bound (& Your Head Down)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Tishaia, who bid on me for the SC Wolf Charity Project! 
> 
> Thanks:  
> \- to daunt, for helping me with the plot, setting, and feel of this fic. Without you it wouldn't have been written!  
> \- to bk and lauren, my betas! thanks for looking this over and giving me notes :)  
> \- to kim, for the amazing summary. 
> 
> I have a second part planned, making this into a series, if anyone is interested. Not sure how much interest there will be, though? Either way! This was a lot of fun to write. 
> 
> Notes about the Dubious Consent tag & Bloodplay tag are found at the end of the fic.

The rumbling sounds of the ship reverberated throughout the long corridor. Derek concentrated on it as he walked, hands clasping at his forearms, tucked into his robes as he followed in step with his Master. Derek couldn’t help but sigh as they rounded a corner, showing his hesitance at what must be done. 

“If I thought that you’d go soft on me after this long, nephew, I would have left him to die on Rishi, with his Master and fellow Jedi.” Derek’s jaw clenched at his uncle’s, no, his Master’s words. Peter Hale knew how much the young Padawan that they have held captive for over a week meant to him, how much converting him to the Dark Side meant to Derek. “You are out of time, Derek. Do not fail, or I will take care of him in my own way.” Peter smirked cooly, his hands clasped behind his back as they walked slowly down the hallway, finally stopping in front of the wing they put their prisoner on. 

“I will not fail,” Derek spoke, his voice crisp, firm. Too much was on the line for him to allow Peter to kill their captive. Derek looked to the door, his nostrils flaring, lips pursed together. 

“I’ve warmed him up for you,” Peter said with a sly smile, shrugging his shoulder as he closed his eyes, as if relishing the memory of torturing the Padawan. “And I must tell you how much I enjoy red on him. It suits him well.” 

Derek smiles. He smiles because he knows his uncle is trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get him to react. He knows first hand of his Master’s handy work when it comes to pain and torment, and yet that didn’t deter him from watching some of the sessions that Peter performed on the young Padawan. But, as per his Master’s orders, Derek had stayed away for two full days and nights. He had left the captive alone with Peter, despite his misgivings about doing so. He knew just how cruel his Master could be, especially to Jedi. He and his uncle both had their reasons for their hatred of the Jedi Order. 

Derek said nothing more to his Master before he walked into the room, letting the door slide closed behind him. It was dark, the low hum of the ship the only noise as Derek stepped forward. The young boy, no more than sixteen now, was left kneeling in the center of the room, his hands shackled together behind his back. From where Derek stood he could see the boy’s robe, disheveled and left gaping open, that dark bruises covered his chest, trailed up his neck, and ghosted across his collarbone. 

He sat unmoving as Derek approached, unaffected by his footsteps, his face hanging forward, resting against his chest. For a moment, Derek thought that he wasn’t breathing. It wasn’t until he was closer, kneeling in front of him that he could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The boy’s eyes were closed, his lips parted. There was blood dripping down his chin, pooling on the floor.. 

“Stiles,” Derek called out, his voice cold, harsh. Stiles jerked his head up as if he had been slapped, his eyes opening as if it hurt to do so. Peter had not been gentle on him, which was what he had expected. When Stiles had first boarded the ship, he had been unyielding and insusceptible, unable to be swayed. Little by little, Peter had stripped his resistance away, peeled back his defiance. His allegiance to the force now wavered, waiting to be shattered.

Now Stiles kneeled before him, unmoving, his jaw now clenched, his eyes narrowed. Derek untucked his hands from his robes, his gloved hands falling to his thighs as he looked over him.  
Much had changed since he had seen him last, before Derek had become a Sith. Stiles was no longer the young boy that followed Derek around when he himself was a Padawan. Stiles was his height, all toned muscle and held the resilience of someone who was a trainee far older and wiser than Stiles’ years.

Derek took his time removing his gloves, his eyes not leaving Stiles’ as he placed them on the floor next to him. Stiles breathed in sharply as Derek reached forward, his fingers raking soothingly through the Padawan’s sweat-damp hair until they stilled at the nape of his neck. Stiles closed his eyes, gulping at the touch, letting out a shuddering breath. In the week that he had been in this room, it was the first time that Derek had touched him kindly, had touched him while ungloved. 

With his free hand, Derek’s thumb traced a gash across Stiles’ cheek, making him flinch, his lips parting as he attempted to reign back a whimper of pain. He was successful in not making a noise, in policing his own actions. Derek couldn’t help but smirk, to feel a twinge of pride, The Stiles he had left behind could barely hold still for an hour as he practiced meditation. 

The Stiles before him was an expert comparatively, especially after being tortured for days on end.

Derek licked his lips before he bent forward, his hand cupping Stiles’ face, his thumb smearing the dripping blood across the Padawan’s lips before he pressed his lips against Stiles’. The Padawan went rigid as Derek tasted blood, his tongue darting out of his mouth, sliding across Stiles’ cracked and bloodied lips, reveling in the taste of him. Then, all contact was withdrawn as if it had never happened. Stiles opened his eyes, his shoulder shaking with strain, his muscles reacting, spasming at his restraint. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered. Stiles snorted, his breath catching in his throat. It was the first sign of the Stiles that Derek had known before.

“There you are,”Derek smiled, “I knew you were somewhere in there, buried beneath all of that Jedi rhetoric.” Stiles’ eyes narrowed, his face hardening. 

“This won’t work, Derek,” Stiles spat out, his voice venomous, but weak. His words cracked as they escaped his lips from lack of use. Derek ignored Stiles’ denial, instead honing in on one small fact: Stiles had used his first name. It was the first time since his capture that he had called him Derek. Before now it had only been silence, or just an formal, curt ‘Hale’. Derek allowed a warm smile to show for a moment before his face dropped back to the stoic, stone cold demeanor that he had come to know so well as a Sith. 

Derek stood up, grabbing his gloves as he did so. He walked in a circle, slowly around Stiles as he tucked them into his belt. “I won’t join you,” Stiles added, as if it had to be said. Derek said nothing as he walked, as he waited. Stiles was trying to even out his breathing, his eyes closing, his knuckles whitening as he attempted to meditate, to find a sense of calm. Derek recalled a much younger Stiles coming to his bedchambers at night, against his Master’s orders, asking for Derek’s advice. Derek had indulged him back then. 

Now, though, Derek was running out of time. Since leaving behind the ways of the Jedi, Derek has allowed himself to feel. In this, he has let his true feelings for the young Padawan to resurface. When he was a Jedi, he had dutifully pushed them aside, repressed them. But now that he had the chance to save Stiles from them, from the obedience and the detachment. Derek remembered Stiles before they had taken his emotion, his passion. 

“The Jedi are strangling your potential, Stiles. I was like you once. I thought it was the only way, but it isn’t.” The words were not new to Derek’s lips, nor to Stiles’ ears. They had gone over this many times in the past week. Only this time, it had Stiles shaking, his lips barely visible at how hard he was pursing them together, his eyes shut tight, as if he was trying to block out Derek’s words. Derek pushed on, sensing Stiles’ struggle. He had to save Stiles from becoming another one of the Jedi’s hollowed out drones, a shell of a person, a set piece waiting to be moved. “Do not conform to their method of controlling you,” Derek forced out, stopping in front of Stiles once more. “No contacts, no attachment. You’re not like that, Stiles. I know you’re not.” Stiles gasped for breath, his eyes opening, blinking as if he had been ripped from a nightmare. Stiles grimaced, turning his head away from Derek instead of closing his eyes once more as he breathed hard, his chest heaving. “They have control over you, they are killing you, snuffing out your light, your passion.” 

“Do not speak of the Light,” Stiles choked out in a rush, as if it pained him to say it. “You betrayed me,” he muttered. Derek started walking again, not falling prey to Stiles’ retort. Derek did not betray him, the Order did. They had told Stiles that he had died, had told him the lie. 

When Derek and Peter captured Stiles, he had been furious. With the death of Jedi Master Harris, Stiles was weakened, brought down. When he saw by whom, he had let his emotions get the better of him. Years of restraint and at the sight of Derek, they had flooded to the surface. 

Since then, though, he had held himself at bay. Derek yearned to see that passion in Stiles’ eyes once more, even if it was in anger. He knew what lay beneath the surface, he only had to find the way in. 

Derek watched as Stiles reigned in his emotions once more. They hadn’t allowed him to sleep more than an hour at a time since his capture, had only fed him enough that he wouldn’t die. His defenses were down and Derek knew that all it would take was the right wording, the right push. 

When Stiles’ body stopped shaking Derek stopped walking once more, kneeling down on one knee before him. Stiles had his eyes open this time, waiting. Derek switched gears, his features softening. 

“You’ve become so good at meditating,” he offered. Stiles wasn’t used to approval, his Master, Harris, did not believe in praise. Stiles wouldn’t react to torture, but to praise... Stiles’ eyebrows quivered as he drew in a sharp intake of breath, as a tear fell, sliding slowly down Stiles’ cheek. His eyes were wide, as if he hadn’t known it would happen from a seemingly offhanded comment. Derek tilted his head, his mind whirling at the breakthrough. 

Derek reached out and wiped away the tear. Stiles bit his lip. “You’ve done well, Stiles. Others would not have held out this long, resisted.” Stiles shook beneath him, his dried lips catching on themselves as he parted his lips.

“Stop,” Stiles begged. Derek cupped Stiles’ face with both of his hands, tilting his head up more so that they would lock eyes. 

“Why?” Derek asked. “Why would I stop?” Stiles shook his head as much as he could with Derek gripping him tightly, his teeth catching his bottom lip. “Tell me,” Derek forced out, his voice biting, cold, back to how it had been before. 

“I can’t-,” Stiles gasped out, shuddering as if he hadn’t meant to let it slip. Derek let his thumbs caress Stiles’ face, his cheeks. Stiles was shaking openly now, breathing through his mouth as if at any moment he could let out a moan, a noise that could rock Derek deep between his bones. He ached for it. 

“It’s always been us, always. Since the beginning, hasn’t it?” Derek asked, letting his mask fall, letting Stiles see his emotions, feel them. Stiles let go, then. He released a shaky breath, a moan escaping his lips as if he hadn’t allowed himself to think it, to believe that Derek cared for him at all. “Always you and me.” His voice was fierce, passionate. He needed Stiles to understand that he had to follow him to the Dark Side or he would die by Peter’s hand. Derek had no intention of letting Stiles slip between his fingers, not now, not when he was so close. 

“You and me,” Stiles murmured, tears flowing freely as he nodded his head. Derek flooded with relief, mimicking Stiles’ movements, nodding his own head. 

“Yes, Stiles. Together, we were always together. Join me now.” Stiles hesitated, his watery eyes showing fear for the first time. Derek swallowed, pulling a hand away from Stiles’ cheek. Stiles’ eyes widened, flinching as if he thought Derek were about to strike him. Instead, he brushed Stiles’ tears away with his fingers.

“I need you,” Derek admitted, emotion dripping from his words. Stiles collapsed against Derek, his head falling forward and resting on his shoulder, his lips against Derek’s neck. ”Can you see that?” Stiles was breathing heavily against him, as if he was having a hard time finding air. He was drenched in sweat, dried blood, and tears. 

“Yes,” Stiles whispered, barely audible.

**Author's Note:**

> Dubious Consent tag: Stiles is captured and kissed without consent, he is emotionally manipulated into choosing the dark side by Derek. 
> 
> Bloodplay tag: Derek smears a trail of blood across Stiles' lips then kisses him, licking it up. 
> 
> Please do not read if you feel like this could trigger you/that this makes you uncomfortable.


End file.
